The Barsoom Project

From an overhead camera in one of the cafeterias he watched a replay of a pushing-and-shouting match. Six of one group and ten of another, all Africans… he recognized Razul, the Libyan Ambassador, so the other, bigger group must be Pan-Africa. They screamed in each other’s faces, mixing languages, pausing to find a word but never finding the chance to use it. The language barrier was driving them berserk. Their interpreters kept trying to interrupt. Now security men and women moved among them, drawing the screamers aside..

The incident had been neatly averted. Whoever was working security had done well, but could he have caught it quicker?

“Zoom.” The screen zoomed up, and he had a clear view of Mitch Hasagawa. Good man on the floor, almost psychically sharp. Reminded Griffin a lot of Marty Bobbick, before Marty put in for desk operations. A good man in the field, a decent man in the office. Alex hoped that Mitch would stay in the field.

He zoomed the second window. It cleared and fogged again. Close-up of the Arab, Razul. Griffin remembered Razul; he had briefed his officers on the man. Razul was Kareem Fekesh’s man. Despite Fekesh’s staggering financial empire, the industrialist was widely rumored to be a primary supporter of Holy Fire, the radical political sect which had grown out of the United Moslem Activist Front in the teens. Nothing had ever been proven, but…

Holy Fire had openly threatened the life of Charlene Dula. Fekesh should never have been permitted within ten kilometers of the Park, but his influence had delivered most of the radical Arab sects, totaling billions of dollars of prospective investment capitol. Money talks, and loudly enough to drown out the voice of a security chief.

“Don’t disturb me for five minutes, Cary. I need to breathe.”

“Got it, boss.”

Griffin looked out over the valley. He stood, twisted his back until his spine crackled. The sun sat low on the horizon, and the mountain shadows stretched slowly toward Dream Park. There was too damn much to do, and it was all too damned important, not just for Cowles Industries, but for the human race. Africa might be a lesson for them all. Perhaps the lines of nationalism and factionalism and every other goddamn “ism” in the world had reduced the chances for this weary planet. Or not. Nuclear devices had existed for over a century, and only four of them had ever been used in anger. This could be interpreted as proof of divine intervention, good luck, a sign that the human race was growing up, or ominous portent, depending upon one’s standing in the “half-empty, half-full” school of cocktail-party philosophy.

For most of recorded history, military technology had been the cutting edge of human knowledge. Only the leap to space called forth more of man’s natural and intellectual resources. Project Barsoom was the most expansive dream in human history, big enough to create a world vision, to involve every world government. It would create millions of jobs and circulate hundreds of billions of dollars. It could be a rallying point, a place to start over.

The door behind him swung open ahead of Marty, who bounced in talking around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “Quite a madhouse, Chief.”

Can’t get five goddamn minutes- Alex squashed the flash of irritation. “Getting madder by the minute. What now?”

“We’ve got the IFGS feed on line three. We need to take this one together.”

“Why me, Lord?”

The question surprised him. “You’ve actually been through one of the Games. Chief, I need the input.” Without waiting for Alex’s approval, Marty leaned over his desk and tapped the vidfeed through.

The screen cleared; the pinched, aquiline features of Arlan Myers appeared. The man always looked like he had a wedge of lemon tucked in one bearded cheek. “Mr. Griffin,” Myers said, with just the slightest hint of what Alex assumed was resentment. Where was Myers? New York? And what time was it there…?

Oops.

“Sorry for the hour, Arlan,” Griffin said solicitously. His imagination wandered, and he found himself wondering what Myers was wearing under the edge of the screen. Maybe the International Fantasy Gaming Society had summoned him out of bed. Better still, maybe Myers was the resident IFGS satyr, and something warm and pliant was waiting for him just off screen. Alex allowed a moment’s fantasy about the official IFGS Kama Sutra. “We’re going to be running that modified Fimbulwinter Game in a few hours. Have you had a chance to scan the Game tapes?”

“Of course.” Arlan sniffed. “A basic modification of the Fimbulwinter scenario.” For the first time a touch of joy appeared on his face. “Rather clever, actually. I worked on that one a few years back, when the Lopezes designed the control sequences.” He shook his head reproachfully. “It’s really too difficult for novice Gamers. I have to admit that I don’t completely understand the method behind this particular madness.”